Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  Okado’s smile widened. He unhooked one katana from his belt. He tossed her the sheathed blade. She caught it in one hand and glared at him.

  “A katana is the blade of a warrior.” He drew his second sword, and the moonlight gleamed upon the curved blade. “This is the weapon of an artist, a weapon of water, wind, and spirits.”

  Bailey spat, holding both swords. “Your katanas are puny; weapons for girls. My doubled-edged longsword is longer, wider, and heavier. It has twice the steel for shedding twice the blood.”

  “A bluefeather is larger than a nighthawk, yet none would dispute that the smaller bird is mightier. Place down your sunlit blade. Draw the weapon of the night. I will teach you to become a swordswoman.”

  Rage exploded through Bailey, shooting fire through her limbs. She roared. How dare he insult her sword? How dare he imply she was a child? She tossed his katana aside; it flew toward a group of riders, scattering them. She raised her old longsword, a blade larger than his.

  “Fight me.” She spat. “My blade against yours. We both wear armor. Fight me!”

  Not waiting for a reply, she charged toward him, longsword swinging.

  Okado sidestepped and raised his katana. The blades clashed together.

  Shouting, Bailey stepped back and lashed her sword again. The katana once more blocked the blow and then swung toward her. The blade drove across her armor, showering scales. The bits of steel flew through the air.

  “I could have cut your flesh,” Okado said. “I—”

  She howled and lunged toward him, blade swinging down. He parried one blow, but Bailey attacked with fury, slamming her sword again and again. Finally one blow crashed against his armor. It did nothing but dent a scale.

  Okado reached out, grabbed her wrist, and twisted.

  She screamed; it felt like he’d snap her bone. Her longsword clanged to the ground.

  “You could have killed me,” he said, twisting her wrist, staring at her sternly.

  She yowled, struggling to free herself but only bending her wrist further. “You … taunted me. That would qualify as suicide.”

  He stared at her a moment longer, eyes wide, then burst into laughter. He kicked her fallen longsword aside and released her wrist.

  “Clumsy with the sword,” he said, “yet brave like a wolf.”

  She shook her wrist, wincing at the pain. She feigned a smile. “And I bite like one too.”

  Before her words could sink in, she leaped onto him—just as she’d leap onto Torin back at home before wrestling him to the ground. Okado grunted in surprise. He did not fall down like Torin always had, but he reacted too slowly. Bailey grabbed his arm and bit down hard, driving her teeth into his wrist. He cursed and his fingers uncurled. His sword too clanged to the ground. Bailey gave another shove, tangling her leg between his—one of the moves she’d learned back with the boys at home.

  This time Okado fell.

  His breath left his lungs. He groaned and tried to shove her off, but Bailey grew up wrestling boys in the fields of Fairwool-by-Night. She drove her knee into his belly and pinned him down.

  Lying on his back, Bailey atop him, he stared up with wide eyes.

  “Is this how you Timandrians fight?” he asked.

  Her face an inch from his, she gave him a crooked smile. “This is how farm girls fight.”

  “I tried to show you how to fight with elegance, with grace, with intelligence,” he said.

  She nodded. “Aye. And you lost.”

  As he stared up at her, their bodies pressed together, Bailey realized that she’d only need to lean down another two inches—she could almost do it accidentally!—for their lips to touch. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him … the way she had kissed Torin. Kissing Torin had been a thing of jealousy, and it had sent no warmth through her body; it had felt more like patting a beloved dog. But Okado … with him, she thought that it would feel different. Strange. Intoxicating. Somehow wrong and right at the same time.

  “Get off me,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I defeated you in battle. By the laws of your people, I rule your pack now.” She winked. “Maybe I will banish you into the wilderness. Maybe I will make you an omega. Or maybe … maybe I will forget your lessons, and you will forget that you thought me weak.”

  She patted his cheek, leaped off him, and lifted her fallen sword. As she walked away, she felt his eyes on her back, and a thin smile stretched across her lips.

  Around her, the riders were gathering their supplies and mounting their wolves. Bailey joined them, her old sword hanging from her belt. The journey east to Yintao continued.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE HALL OF THE DARK EMPRESS

  She stood at the prow, biting her lip and trying to ignore the stinging on her arm.

  The sea surrounded them, a blackness spreading into the horizons, rising and falling, whispering. Clouds hid the stars. For many turns, they had sailed through this void, cold and alone, their lantern a single light in the night. Koyee felt like a fly trapped in the stomach of some great, dark creature, forever floating and swimming in circles, forever imprisoned in the beast.

  The boat creaked and swayed. She had patched its cracks with clay, but some water always found its way in. Torin came to stand beside her, holding a half-eaten fish.

  “How do you feel?” he said softly. “Does it still hurt? Do you want to eat some—”

  She spun toward him, lips peeling back. “I told you I’m fine!” She shoved the fish away. “And I told you: I’m not hungry.”

  He recoiled, pain in his eyes. That only infuriated Koyee further. “I’m sorry—” he began.

  “Stop apologizing!” She glared. “Why do you always apologize? What kind of man are you? Be a little stronger, damn it.”

  His eyes narrowed and his mouth closed, forming a small line. He turned away and trudged to the stern, yet it was only a few feet away. He was always only a few feet away.

  “This damn boat is too small,” she muttered and tugged her hair. “It’s too damn small! You’re always so near me. Damn!”

  He did not reply, only sat there, and Koyee wanted to pummel him. Why wouldn’t he fight back, stand up to her like a man? Why wouldn’t he just leap overboard and drown? She hated him. She hated his small, mismatched eyes, and his breath always on her shoulder, and—

  She groaned, sat down, and clenched her fists. She forced herself to take deep breaths, to close her eyes, to clear her mind. She had spent a moon with him upon this boat, maybe longer—and for the past few turns, it had been here at sea, nothing but blackness around them. Her arm had not stopped burning since the battle at Sinyong upon the southern Qaelish coast, and as much as the oppression of this tiny boat, the pain constantly nettled her, endless hooks driving into her flesh. Whenever she looked at her arm, the wound seemed worse, the welts ticker and darker, wrapping around her like a snake. After a while she had stopped looking, keeping the wound always under her sleeve. Even Eelani, her dearest companion, dared not approach her most turns; Koyee only rarely felt the warmth of her shoulder spirit.

  It will be better once we reach Ilar, she thought, eyes stinging. They’ll have healers for my arm. Eelani will want to sit on my shoulder again. And maybe, once I can breathe away from him for a while, I can love Torin again.

  That thought surprised her. Love Torin again? Had she ever loved him? She turned around and looked at him. He sat with his back to her, staring into the sea, his shoulders pushed inward. Koyee sighed. The foolish, silly boy.

  She stood up, tottered across the boat, and knelt behind him. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his ear.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve spent too long in this boat, and my arm still hurts, and I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and squeezed him, remembering that night he had carried her to The Green Geode, the night her city had fallen. “I love you, Torin Greenmoat. You know that, right?”

  He turned toward her. She was about to kiss his che
ek, to undress him, to make love to him to forget the pain and darkness, but his eyes widened. He gasped.

  She pulled back. “Are my words so shocking to you?”

  So there it was—she had confessed her love, and he would not return it, would not say he loved her too, only gasp. She felt her rage flare anew, and she was about to slap him, and then she saw the light in his eyes.

  He pointed over her shoulder. “Behind you, Koyee. In the south. Lights.”

  She spun around and exhaled slowly. A tremble seized her. Though she had spent so long on this boat, dreaming of finally reaching this place, now those distant lights shot fear through her, and her arm stung with new vigor.

  “Ilar,” she whispered.

  The lights were still distant, a mere line along the horizon—the northern coast of a southern empire. Koyee gripped her sword. Her father’s stories returned to her. He had fought with this sword upon this coast. The Qaelish Empire had clashed against these southern warriors; her father had borne the scars until his last breath. He had spoken to Koyee of killers in black armor, of dark beasts greater than nightwolves, of a people warlike and cruel who drank blood from the skulls of their enemies. Ilar—the land that had tormented Qaelin for many generations, the land of blood and steel … the land that could now save all Eloria from daylight.

  “We’re here,” Torin said. “Thank Idar, we’re here.”

  She turned to look at him and held his arm. “Be careful in this land, Torin. Keep your sword loose in your scabbard. Remember all the words I taught you. And stay near me. Whatever happens, stay near me. The Ilari hold no love for Qaelish folk, but I’m still a fellow Elorian; they might slay you on sight.”

  He cleared his throat. “Blimey, aren’t you a cheery one.” He nodded. “I’ve been to a few dangerous places this past year. I know how to watch over myself.”

  “Not here.” She shook her head. “Not in Ilar. We sail toward the darkest, most dangerous corner of the night. They say the world used to turn, Torin, that day would follow night in an endless dance. If that’s true, the place we sail to is midnight.”

  They rowed the rest of the way in silence.

  With every mile, more details emerged. The lights belonged to torches, Koyee saw. Thousands burned upon black walls that lined the coast. The firelight glinted on armor; soldiers manned the battlements, their steel as dark as the walls. Behind them rose towers, not thin and glowing like the towers of Pahmey, but cruel and jagged like broken, blackened femurs rising from a tar pit. Here lurked Asharo, the great port of the Ilari Empire, a factory for warships and warriors who had so many times tormented the Qaelish coast. Distant booms rose from the city—the drums of war. Men shouted and metal clanged.

  “Does a battle rage here too?” Torin asked, leaning forward and squinting.

  Koyee narrowed her eyes, staring ahead as the city grew closer; she could see better in the darkness than him. “I see no cannon fire, no arrows flying, and the guards upon the walls stand still.” She shook her head. “No, there is no battle. But I don’t like the sound of those drums or the screaming. Hope may lie here, but death too.”

  “Well, I’m not turning back now.” Torin smiled wanly. “After a month with you in a boat, I could use a rest in a nightmarish city of pain like this.”

  She rolled her eyes then winced as fire shot through her arm. She ground her teeth, pushing the pain down, ignoring the thought that had been rattling through her mind since the battle: that her arm was getting worse, that an infection was crawling up to her shoulder and coiling onto her chest. For now, she had no time to contemplate her wound; the night was dying and she had to save it before she died too.

  As they rowed closer, Koyee saw a port nestled between two jagged breakwaters. She narrowed her eyes. Several ships in the port were listing, and a few were sunken down to the tips of their masts. Holes gaped open in the city walls behind the docks, and a guard tower lay fallen upon the shore. The city gates were smashed, and many guards stood before them.

  “A battle was fought here,” she said. “And not long ago. I can still smell the fire and blood. Yet the city still stands. The banners of Ilar still fly.”

  She pointed at those banners now. The streamers fluttered from the remaining guard towers, sporting the red flame of Ilar. The flame and moonstar must join, she thought, gazing upon that sigil. Ilar and Qaelin—no longer enemies but fighting together for the night.

  “A flame sigil?” Torin asked, staring at the banners. “A flame emits light and we’re in Eloria.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Have you learned nothing in the night? Fire is life in the darkness. And for the Ilari, fire also means the burning death of their enemies.”

  They rowed toward the port. The ships of Ilar were different from the junks of Qaelin—these vessels were larger, lined with many oars, floating fortresses with several tiers of decks. Their hulls were painted black and red, and iron figureheads, shaped of dragons, jutted out from their prows. The red flame danced upon their black sails. As the Water Spider entered the port, navigating between the breakwaters, Koyee gasped. Torin covered his mouth and emitted a strangled sound.

  “Oh bloody Idar’s vomit,” he said.

  Koyee winced, staring ahead. “They’re slaves,” she whispered. “Slaves of war.”

  Outside the city walls, a hundred or more Timandrians toiled upon the sand. They were stripped naked even in the cold of night, and iron collars encircled their necks. Ilari soldiers stood as masters, whips in hand, landing blows upon the Timandrians’ backs. At first, Koyee thought the prisoners were building a hill of sand. When she rowed closer and understood their task, she nearly gagged.

  The Timandrian prisoners, naked and chained, were piling up a hill of bodies.

  “You’re lucky you’re not with your brothers!” one Ilari soldier shouted and laughed. A tall man in black plate armor, he lashed his whip, bloodying the back of a Timandrian. “Go on, faster, you sunlit worm. Stack up the bodies of your slain brothers. Cold, are you? They’ll burn soon and warm you.” He cracked his whip again, hitting a second man. “Be thankful we don’t burn you with them.”

  Koyee had to look away, wincing. Torin grimaced and covered his face.

  “Koyee, I don’t like this,” he said. “They’re … torturing Timandrians.”

  She nodded. “Prisoners of war. Look at the sunken ships. I see banners of Timandra.”

  Torin nodded, looking at the banners that still hung from sinking masts. “A scorpion for Eseer—desert warriors. The elephant is Sania, a southern island, and the crocodile is Daenor from the western coast of Dayside.”

  Koyee tugged the rudder of the Water Spider, guiding the boat around one of the sunken ships. They moved closer toward the smashed gates.

  “A army of three Timandrian kingdoms attacked,” she said. “They smashed the gates and shattered a tower and nearly broke the walls, but they lost this battle.” She looked back at the beach where the chained prisoners toiled. “Now they stack up their own dead for burning.”

  Torin loosened his collar, his face pale in the lamplight. “I don’t think they like Timandrians much in this place. I know I said I wanted to visit, but … maybe I should just wait in the boat.”

  Koyee grabbed a rope from the floor. She raised it and smiled crookedly at Torin. “You’re still coming with me. I’m not leaving you alone anywhere in this place. If they catch you, you’ll be stacking bodies with the rest of them.” She began to form a knot. “So long as we’re in Ilar, you’re my prisoner of war.”

  When she slung the rope around his wrists, he gasped and tugged himself free. “Koyee! You’re not going to … to tie me up and drag me around like your dog, are you?”

  She glared, hands on her hips. “Of course not. I’m going to tie you up and drag you around like my slave. Torin, look around you.” She gestured at the Ilari soldiers on the coast; they were busy whipping more prisoners. “Do you think the Ilari will understand that you’re a renegade, that you’re here
to help them fight? Of course not. But they understand slaves. They understand brutality. So I’ll be a little brutal to you here.” She grinned and mussed his hair. “It’ll just be an act … mostly.”

  He groaned, but he dutifully let her tie his wrists.

  They navigated around several more ships—some sinking ruins, others the proud ships of the Ilari fleet. A chorus of whips and screams followed them toward the docks outside the smashed gates. Guards stood upon flagstones, staring at them, hands on their bows and hilts.

  Koyee moored, secured her boat with what roped remained, and made a show of dragging Torin onto the docks.

  “Move, maggot!” she shouted at him. “Damn it, move or I’ll toss you into that pile of bodies on the beach.”

  Torin winced, bit his lip, and climbed out of the boat. Koyee began to walk toward the gates, not sparing him another glance. She held the rope in her left hand; it ran several feet and connected to Torin’s wrists. She tugged him toward the shattered gates, clad in her armor, her katana hanging from her belt. Torin’s armor and sword remained hidden upon their boat. After so long at sea, her legs wobbled and her head spun, and her arm still blazed, but she forced herself to march onward.

  “Faster, worm!” she shouted over her shoulder.

  The soldiers at the gates—there were about fifty—stared at her. Koyee raised her chin and stared back, refusing to slow down or look away. She had to display nothing but cruel strength here. It was the language the Ilari spoke, and she would speak it fluently. While she wore the silvery scales of her empire, these soldiers donned bulky armor of black, lacquered plates engraved with red runes. Jagged horns rose from their flaring helms; the visors were pulled down, shaped as snarling faces complete with bushy mustaches of fur. Koyee could see only their eyes peering from within—deep, mistrustful eyes that gleamed red in the torchlight. They held bows in their armored hands, and tasseled katanas hung from their belts.

  Koyee came to a stop before them. They stood quite a lot taller than her, but Koyee squared her shoulders and raised her chin.